


Son of Gondor (AU)

by KayleeArafinwiel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Boromir, son of Denethor II, had *not* fallen at Parth Galen? How might he have fared in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields? AU, written belatedly for the "B6" prompts of "Bingo Baggins' Bingo Bash" for SWG's B2MEM 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of Gondor (AU)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Susana Rosa (SusanaR)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/gifts).



The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor, was second in command and lay at the side of one he had once called Thorongil, one he had hailed as his King on Parth Galen. The hands of the King were the hands of a healer, indeed, he thought in wonder.

What would it have been like, to have left his body behind, there on the green lawn? Impaled by so many arrows, it was a wonder he had not died. But his King had called him, and he had come…he had turned back. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear his mother’s voice. Finduilas – she had come to greet him, but not to claim him. Her caress had been a balm to his soul. 

“Thorongil is here,” she had said. “He comes for you even now. Obey your King, my son.” With that, he had stepped back into the world of the living, marveling at the chance he had been given. Only a step away from embracing the Gift of Men for eternity, he had chosen instead to obey his mother, and Thorongil…Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur. His King.

Boromir turned his head slightly to watch Faramir. His brother had insisted on accompanying them to war, though Boromir intended to send him back to Minas Tirith before long. Faramir preferred a quill to a sword, though he could wield both with equal ferocity. He simply preferred being a statesman to a soldier. He was not wedded to war, as Boromir was.

Wedded to war, Boromir mused. If Aragorn was indeed to be King, Boromir would not need to worry about a wife, an heir. He was rather glad of that. Let Faramir be the one to wed and beget a family, for such was not Boromir’s concern. Oh, he liked women well enough – it was just that he could not allow himself to be so tied down.

Tied down…it would tie him down. He would always have something to worry about that he could not control, like that damnable thing somewhere on the other side of these hills, carried by the Halfling Frodo Baggins…

As he thought that, his head began to throb, and he began to hear its soothing whispers, calling to him, promising him the Lordship of all Gondor and Arnor both if he would but slay Isildur’s Heir and submit. His hands closed around the hilt of his belt knife, and he pressed the point to his heart. ‘No!’ he shouted silently. ‘Better I slay myself than betray my King!’ His mind and body warred, and suddenly he felt Aragorn’s hand on his forehead, Aragorn’s voice speaking soothing words in the Elven-tongue. He relaxed and Aragorn set the knife aside. 

“Peace, son of Gondor,” Aragorn said softly. “You are safe, Boromir. Do not let the Enemy’s whispers pierce you so. I am here to help.”

Boromir’s smile quavered. Near him, a cartwright from one of the lower Circles called, “M’lord, are ye well?” and he blushed with shame, knowing his actions had gone noticed by more than only Aragorn and Faramir.

“Ay, Feodor. I am well,” he replied, and Feodor nodded in satisfaction. The man fingered his sword, and Boromir hoped Feodor knew how to wield it. He would hate to bring news of Feodor’s death to his young family.

As Feodor turned to his kinsmen, likely to share the news that their Captain-General was quite well, Aragorn studied Boromir unobtrusively. Boromir was well enough, but he was not wholly well. Eighteen years spent living under Lord Elrond’s roof had taught Aragorn, then Estel, something about seeing into the fea, past the physical appearance. Something about Boromir’s demeanour did not sit easily with Aragorn, and he continued to search, to find what unsettled him. The smell of wood smoke reached the resting army, and Aragorn looked round. The enemy was upon them!

Bows of supple elm were readied as the soldiers stirred to action. Fire issued forth from the enemy ranks as though it were Glaurung, Father of Dragons, and Aragorn began issuing commands. Boromir struggled to his feet, Faramir helping without being obvious about it. The brothers stood back to back as the horde came forth, each fighting their own battles both within and without, and they both tried hard not to think of a warm hearth with Cook’s soup boiling and the savoury scent they both so loved. Of course, the more they tried not to think, the more they thought. But the stench of blood soon outweighed any imaginary scent, good or bad.

Bows twanged, swords flashed and struck as the battle raged. Eru help us all, Boromir thought, his head spinning as he parried and struck, slaying orcs and Easterlings, Haradrim and Uruk-hai. Each fight was worse than the last, and he was trying hard not to throw up. 

Somewhere during the fight, Faramir left him. Legolas and Gimli kept up the fight, Boromir thought dimly, though they did not keep count of their kills. Boromir’s knees buckled as he ran through a troll that had borne down on him, and suddenly his King finished it off. Aragorn came to stand with his Captain-General, fighting as brothers in arms until the Steward’s Heir was well again. 

Boromir’s world spun into exhausted, blessed darkness, and he woke, groggy, to find himself in the Houses of Healing when all was won. The first thing he could think of to say was,

“There wouldn’t be any decent wine, would there?”


End file.
